Only Which That They Defend
by Maddie553
Summary: "I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend" He wonders, if I was not royalty, would I still fight? Would I still be brave? But of course he would, for Bilbo. Anything for Bilbo.


_I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness…_

Blood.

That is all Thorin can smell. Blood of his family, of his friends, of his enemies. It's all over. It's sunken into his skin, mangled in his hair, and dripping out of the dead bodies. Oh god, all the dead bodies. He's afraid to look down, because he does not know how many there are, and he does not want to. He was never too fond of swords, always believed they did more damage than good. Caused too much pain. It was a sword that cut his grandfather's head right off. Such a strong dwarf. He spent his whole life as a brave king. And it was all taken away from a piece of cold metal.

But, it was a sword that rid Azog of his hand, of his dignity. He remembers how he ran. How pathetic he looked. Thorin smiles. Because even if he dies right here, right now, he will always have that moment. And it will always be Azog who runs, never him. Maybe he does not mind swords, for they hold such power and can cause such damage. Damage is destruction. And destruction is beautiful.

He wants to think, but he can't. There are orcs all around him, he cannot be vulnerable. He cannot be weak. He raises his shoulders, and hardens his face. He sees an orc running towards him, flailing his sword above his head, thinking he is going to rid Thorin of his. But he won't. Thorin waits, he knows he can easily kill this orc, for the orc is foolish and young. Reminds him of Fili and Kili. He does not waste time and energy worrying about them; he knows they have each other. He remembers when Fili got in trouble for punching another young male dwarf for making fun of Kili for not having a beard. And even though he was banished to his room for the rest of the night, he never regretted it. His mind then turns to the orc, who is getting closer now. Does he a have a brother, fighting by his side? Or was he taken away from him? He knows that his nephews would stop at nothing to avenge each other. He wonders if the orc is doing the same. But that does not matter. Because he still is an orc. Thorin will never know him. Will never know about his childhood, or his family. Nor will he ever care. He slips his sword into the orcs gut, and wrenches it in. A small whimper falls from the orcs lips, blood dripping from his mouth. More blood. Too much blood. This battlefield does not need any more blood. But it does not matter because he is an orc. A few short, sharp breathes, and then the body goes limp. He slides his sword out of the body and lets it fall. He turns away, and he does not look back.

He quickly wipes his face with the back of his hand, but all it does is smug the blood and dirt in. He blinks, but his sight does not clear. He coughs, but the lump in his throat will not go away.

He wonders_, if I was not royalty, would I still fight? Would I still be brave? _ But of course he would, for Bilbo. Anything for Bilbo.

_nor the arrow for its swiftness…_

Arrows are for cowards. You can kill your enemy a mile away, without them even knowing. A sword, at least they know you're coming. At least they know they are going to die. Thorin thinks that he'd want to know when he was going to die. Makes everything less stressful and he wouldn't have to keep turning his head back all the time. Then again, he would probably be too stubborn to accept it. And Bilbo would probably nag him about it. He imagines how the conversation would go.

"_Oh Thorin Oakenshield, we all must die. Your time will eventually come! Every living creature's heart must stop at some point. Even you cannot defy time and fate"_

It's almost like he can smell the wine that Gandalf had asked for. He can almost recall how well all the food smelled laying out on the table. He can almost hear the dwarfs, no, his companions, laughing, and singing. And he most definitely remembers first laying eyes on Bilbo Baggins. He was so beautiful, even with the nervousness and confusion sketched into his face. Thorin always thinks he is beautiful. Even when Bilbo is angry, or nervous, or upset. While he is braiding Thorin's hair, while they are making love, or while Bilbo is cooking. He does everything with grace, and great passion. Thorin always had something to gain out of things. That's why he did them. But not Bilbo. And Thorin thinks that he does not deserve Bilbo. And he wonders if Bilbo knows that.

He has to stop thinking. He has to stay focused. He is in the middle of a battlefield where hundreds have died, are dying, and are going to die. He cannot tell if there's more blood. There must be, but he cannot see. The smell is unbearable. Sweat and blood. The sounds are even worse. Screaming, slicing, sobbing. He even hears pleas for mercy. All of which are ignored. If he could, he would slay every orc one by one. He would make them stand in line, and one by one, walk up to him. He would slit their throats and he would not flinch when he heard the cries of the children or the mothers. And that thought scares him. Because he knows that Azog would do the same. Thorin is not supposed to be like the orcs. That's why they are fighting. That's why his grandfather died, that's why he killed that young orc who could have had a loyal brother right behind him. So he will never have to be like them.

He has to distract himself. He can't stop thinking.

He looks around, and sees so much death. How a sharp sword slides in and out of bodies, almost like cutting butter. He sees how swift and quite death really is. When you're a child, death seems like an enemy. You believe that you can hear death a mile away, and you will know when it is coming. That it is a huge revolution, and not to be afraid. You are told that if you fight, you will not have to bow down to death. But that is not true. Death sneaks up, just like a coward. From far behind. Like an arrow, quickly piercing through your neck. And before you can think, or move, or even have a chance to fight back, you've already bowed down and submitted to death.

Thorin would like to believe that he would never bow to anyone, anything. But he knows that even he cannot defy death.

_nor the warrior for his glory…_

He wonders if this was a mistake. If he threatened the lives of his nephews, of his friends, for nothing. He wonders if maybe he had swallowed his pride, if he and the orcs could have settled this in a less violent way. But, then again, orcs do not listen to anyone. And neither do dwarfs.

It's ironic, that he is thinking, for once, of something other than violence. He is thinking of peace, when he is stabbed.

He does not feel pain at first. Just feels warms blood run down his legs. He feels it, he does not see it. He does not look anymore bloody than he did before. Oh god, there is so much blood. He still does not look down. He knows that there must be more bodies than before, and he can't bring himself to look at his people, bruised and battered and bloody and dead. Because of him. He cannot even stand to see the dead orcs, for they are a reminder how ugly death is. And what his kingdom is capable of.

God, if he only stopped thinking. This would not have happened. He would have returned to Bilbo. He would have seen Fili take his throne. He would have made things right.

But even he, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain cannot defy fate. No matter how much gold he has. Because death does not want gold. Death wants blood.

He is still standing there, and he can hear the orcs breath against his neck. He grips his sword, thank god he kept a hold of it, and whips around. It burns, it hurts. But he clears the head right off the disgusting scum who brought him to death. He smiles. At least he got as many orcs as he could. He is sure that if he would have survived, Fili and Kili would make him tell the story over and over again. Perhaps, if he were closer to his kingdom, if there was less blood and less death, he could have gotten help. He could have survived, and he would be able to hear Bilbo bicker at him once more.

"_Oh Thorin Oakenshield. You scared me to death! Don't you ever do anything like that again! I cannot bear to lose you"_

He knows Bilbo would have forgiven him though, the second he woke up from the healing bed. He is sure Bilbo would not have left its side, unless against his own will. He was always much more patient than Thorin.

He has to stop thinking now. He is getting dizzy. His boots are soaked with blood now, his own blood. He can feel the pain now. He wonders if, maybe an arrow is a better way to death, for you do not have to think who you are leaving behind, and what you could have done differently. An arrow, straight to the neck, gives you no time to think. Thorin has wasted too much time thinking.

"_My nephews, they love you." Thorin smiled at Bilbo_

"_Well, I'm glad. They are great dwarfs, Thorin. You should be proud" Bilbo said softy, moving in closer to Thorin, if that was even possible._

"_That I am" Thorin buried his face into Bilbo's soft, curly hair. He took a deep breathe in. Bilbo turned around to face him._

"_Relax" Bilbo sighed, his hands rubbing Thorin's thick arms that were wrapped around Bilbo, "It's only me and you. No throne, no gold, no orcs. Just me" _

_Thorin took another deep breathe out and tried his best to loosen his muscles and relax. _

"_You aren't relaxed. I do not want to sleep with you like this" _

"_Okay. _Mother_" Thorin rolled his eyes, and Bilbo laughed. Thorin looked down at Bilbo's face. The creases by his eyes, his white teeth on display, and his nose wiggling. Beautiful._

"_You're staring at me again" Bilbo raised an eyebrow_

"_I can't help it" Thorin shrugged. _

"_If you tried hard enough…" Bilbo started_

"_Dear, I love you, but you are so difficult sometimes…" _

"_I know" Bilbo smiled and rolled over so his back was against Thorin's chest. Bilbo intertwined his and Thorin's fingers, and closed his eyes. With his light breathing, and warmth surronding Thorin, he actually felt safe. Even with guards, and swords and shields, he had never felt this safe and comfortable. He kissed Bilbo's head, and took in his scent. He thought about when they would grow old. He thought about making Bilbo laugh, and how his nose would still wiggle, and even though there would be more wrinkles and creases around his eyes, he'd still be beautiful. _

He cannot keep his balance anymore. He is on his knees. He is right where he could not bear to look earlier that day. There is still so much blood. He has no choice but to look down now. He cannot hold himself up. He coughs, and this time blood comes out. He wipes it from his chin, but it doesn't do much. Just thins it out over his face. He wonders if he is a failure, or a success. If he is brave, or a coward. He is not sure. He did not die a heroic death, but that makes him a success because he fought and died just like his people. He did not run. It will always be Azog who runs. And that makes him brave.

No, he is not brave. Bilbo has always been brave. Even when he scolded him, denied him, and hurt him, Bilbo still risked his own life for Thorin's. Bilbo could have worked out the problem. He would not have let so many die. But maybe it's in their blood to fight and to kill. Maybe it is just the way life is supposed to be. It is not fair, but nothing is fair. If things were fair, he would be with Bilbo. Not here, level with all these corpses, about to become one.

Images are racing through his mind. Bilbo braiding Thorin's hair, Fili and Kili playing together when they were younger, his sister's wedding, his father and grandfather. He can't savior it, he can't slow it down. It's going too fast. His nephews are growing up too fast. He does not have enough time. He'll never have enough time with Bilbo. He is helpless.

He finally falls. He lies down. His eye lids are so heavy now. Too heavy to keep open. He still does not waste time worrying about Fili and Kili because he knows that they will keep each other safe. He does not worry about his sister because he knows she is a strong woman. He does not worry about Bilbo because he is brave and he will move on. He will be okay. He does not worry about Azog anymore because he realizes he has no need to. Azog is weak. He could never accept death. He would whimper and his soldiers would come running to him. He'd be carried out like a coward, like he was when Thorin cut his hand.

He sees blood, and bodies, and swords. That's all his eyes can see. He smells blood and sweat. He swallows and the lump is still there. His breathes are coming out short now. And it reminds him of the young orc he killed. Funny, how the only thing they want is to be different, but orcs and dwarfs will always be so similar. He never took the time to think about that. And now he does not have much time to think.

He can taste the food he had at his and Bilbo's wedding. He can hear the laughter and light conversations between the guests. He can feel Bilbo's warmth, sitting next to him. Bilbo was always warm. How he wishes Bilbo could keep him warm one more time, lay next to him on the battlefield just so he would not have to die here alone and cold. He remembers the way Bilbo looked, and how Thorin felt when Bilbo was walking down the aisle, when he put the ring on his finger, and the night they spent together.

He can't see the bodies or blood or swords anymore. His vision is going dark. The pain is still there, but fading. His heart beat does not thump loudly in his ears anymore. It is fading too.

The lump in his throat keeps getting bigger. Breathes keep coming shorter. He needs to stop holding on. He cannot be saved, he will never be saved. It is too late. But it's his own damn fault for thinking.

His breathing stops. He lets go. He has too.

_I love only that which they defend_

Fili, Kili. The company. Gandalf. His sister. His kingdom. His people. His gold.

_Bilbo. _


End file.
